by Jeff Keithly
“And once you’re finished, what then? You have to try to sell it?”
“It’s already been sold, to a museum in Greece. All my work’s commissions these days. But that’s not why you’re here.” He indicated a sofa and chairs against the far wall. “Sit. Let’s talk.”
Harry took a bottle of cold water from the fridge, offered the same to us, then opened his and drank deeply. “Look, Dex, I’ve spoken to some of the other lads. I know why you’re here. You’ve seen the video John took, and you know what a fool I’ve been. I’d like to keep this from Sarah and the kids if that’s possible – that’s why I paid John’s... fee. I know her. Our marriage will be over if she finds out.”
“Harry,” I began. “This...”
“No, Dex, hear me out. I know you have to find John’s killer. And I know we’re all suspects – all of us who were being blackmailed. You have to do your job, and that trumps any personal considerations. Even the fact that I didn’t kill John probably won’t be enough to shield me from the consequences of my own stupidity. All I ask –“ and here he looked up, eyes pleading “– is that if you know Sarah is going to learn about what I did in Vegas, that you let me know first. So I can be the one to tell her. If I had any guts I’d just tell her now. But I can’t – not if there’s a chance she doesn’t have to know. Look, I know how pathetic that sounds, Dex. But it’s all I’ve got left to cling to at the moment, I’m afraid.”
I considered. “That’s fair enough, Harry. And I’ll do everything I can – everything – to protect the privacy of those we interview. I will tell you that this is a very high-profile case, and it’s going to take some nasty turns before all is said and done. But I won’t drag anyone through the mud unnecessarily.”
“That’s fair, by God. And now –“ for the first time during this interview, Harry smiled. “What d’you want to know?”
II
The interview had lasted an hour; like Seagrave, Harry had stated forthrightly that he and his wife had left the Chalmers Memorial bash at just before 1 a.m. and gone straight home to bed. One item in his favor was the fact that he and Sarah lived in Essex, about an hour’s drive from Notting Hill even under the most favorable traffic conditions. Weathersby’s housekeeper had stated that the shot rang out at 3:01. Assuming Harry was telling the truth – and my instincts said he was -- it would have been almost impossible for Harry to have arrived home, then returned to Penhurst House within that time. Harry had added that raising the money had been no problem; his income was large and fluctuated widely from year to year, depending on his output. Sarah wouldn’t have noticed £100,000 more or less.
“Must be nice,” Brian grinned on our way back to the office. “Now what’s bothering you?”
“Nothing vital.” In truth, something had occurred to me, something from the past that I hesitated to raise even with Brian. But he, at least, deserved to hear the truth. “Let me start by saying that I don’t think Harry’s our boy. But – and this is just between us – back when Harry was drinking, he had... a bit of an unpredictable side.”
“Unpredictable how?” Brian stopped to regard me suspiciously.
“Let’s just say you didn’t want to provoke him. His nickname on tour was ‘The Human Hand Grenade’ – you never knew when he might go off, and who he might damage when he did. One night in Wellington, about five years ago, I watched him and Weathersby sit down with a bottle of gin apiece. Weathersby used to like to egg Harry on, you see, encourage him to drink, just for the hell of it. Anyway, they had a contest, to see who could finish his bottle the fastest. Harry drank his in 15 minutes flat. Then a few of the boys went out to hit the pubs.
“A couple of hours later, Harry was sitting at the bar when one of the local lads started giving Harry grief about his earring. You saw it, tasteful little gold hoop – only time Harry takes it off is on the pitch. Anyway, this kiwi wouldn’t leave it alone. Keeping in mind that Harry’s had a bottle of gin and a half-dozen pints, he’s quite friendly at first – tells the kid he’s an artist, and all artists wear earrings. Then the kid blows smoke in his face and tells him all artists are fags.
“Well, about this time, Ian Chalmers and I started edging closer – we’d seen Harry in action before. But we were too slow. Before we could react Harry had this kid on the ground, with his hands around his neck. His mates were screaming, glasses shattering – absolute pandemonium. Ian and I get there, and try to pull him off, but we can’t – Harry’s unbelievably strong, you saw him. By this time, the kiwi’s turned purple, his tongue’s sticking out, eyes bulging, it was horrible. Took three of us to pry Harry’s hands from around the poor bugger’s neck. If we hadn’t...” I let the sentence trail away.
“You think he would’ve killed him.”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. But I do know that the next morning, Harry didn’t remember a thing about it – couldn’t figure out how he’d gotten those scratches on his face. I’m just glad he’s come to his senses and stopped drinking.”
“And you’re wondering whether to put that story in your report to Oakhurst?”
“No. I’m not wondering. I won’t be including it. But I thought you had the right to know.”
“Dex, I told you, you can’t...!”
“Look Brian.” Even my own partner took an involuntary step back from the fury in my eyes. “I’m not giving that to Oakhurst. Harry didn’t kill Weathersby. He wasn’t drinking the night of the Chalmers Memorial – he was with his wife. I saw him with my own eyes, spoke to him. He’s not the Human Hand Grenade any longer. And anyway, there’s no way he could’ve got to Essex and back to Notting Hill inside of two hours.”
To Brian’s credit, he accepted my decision – for now, at least. “All right, mate, all right – calm down! But I’m telling you this for your own good. You’re not just playing with fire. You’re playing with C-4!”
Chapter 14
Timothy Bernard Plantagenet, Lord Delvemere, was in his element. He sat in the honeyed late afternoon sunshine, drinking in its warmth, in the raucous, palm-fringed beer garden of the Las Vegas Golden Oldies rugby tournament. He had a glass of local ale in his hand, a long Cuban cigar between his teeth. The tournament final had just ended, the Hastewicke Gentlemen had won, and he felt as relaxed and alive as he had in months.
All around him, still in their grass-and-blood-stained rugby kit, stood the triumphant Hastewicke Gentlemen, and the Old B.A.T.S., gracious in defeat, were keeping them well-supplied with beer. Bernie sat between Vince Maitland, the Hastewicke blind-side flanker, and Roy Tasker, the Old B.A.T.S. second row, a Scottish ex-pat whom he and Vince had known and played against for more than 30 years.
“It’s all a matter of perspective,” Roy was saying. “For example, mah years of rugby experience have taught me to forgive the stamping you gave me at the bottom of that ruck, and even stand you a pint after the game.”
“Of course, I wouldn’t have put the boots to you if you hadn’t been biting my leg,” Bernie observed with a smile.
“At least I flossed before the match,” Roy replied, eyes twinkling. “Ah, it’s grand tae see you lot.”
“D’you ever miss the U.K., Roy?” Vince asked.
“Are you kiddin’?” Roy laughed. “San Francisco’s a great city. Got a condo lookin’ out over the bay, a cracking job, more money than ah can spend, and the women! Did you know that sixty percent of the single men in San Francisco are gay? Sixty percent! And probably twenty percent o’the married men! D’you have any idea how much rampant totty that leaves for me? Ah’m thinkin’ of gettin’ married just tae ease the strain on my todger.”
Vince laughed. “Good idea! You’ll live longer.”
“At least, it’ll seem longer,” Bernie observed wryly. “But really, Roy, you’ve got to come on tour with us next time. Think of it – two weeks of rugby and fuck-all in Hong Kong, with tickets for the Sevens. We could use you in the forward pack now that Henry Neville has retired.”
“Old Gouger’s retired at la
st, has he? Well, ah’d love tae come – email me the dates and ah’ll look at mah schedule.” Roy grinned and raised his glass. “Well, here’s tae your lovely wife, then, and hopin’ she’ll let us come along on tour.”
“Us?”
“Aye. Ya must know old Vincey here shags her mercilessly whenever you’re away...”
There had been so many afternoons like this in the last 30 years, filled with the laughter of friends, genial post-game chaffering, and good ale. Sometimes, Bernie felt he lived a sort of Bertie Wooster life – no financial or job worries to furrow the brow, thanks to a generous inheritance; the lifestyle of a lord; a wife who truly was his best friend; and, thanks to his continued connection with the Hastewicke Gentlemen, the opportunity to see the world with a most congenial set of mates.
If he was Bertie Wooster, then Jane was his Jeeves. The idea of marriage had never really crossed his mind, but one day, there she was – flat on her back in Hyde Park with the wind knocked out of her. He had seen the big gelding shy and throw her, and had run across to see whether she was all right. She was struggling for breath; he had gentled her and made her lie back down with her arms over her head. “You’ve had the wind knocked out of you. Just relax, your breath will come,” he had told her soothingly.
“Are you... a doctor?” she had wheezed when at last she could speak.
“Me? Good lord no.” He had laughed at the idea. “I play rugby. This sort of thing happens all the time.”
“Are all rugby players trained in first aid, then?” she had asked as he helped her to her feet. “What do you do when, say, someone gets a limb torn off?”
He considered. “Not sure, really – pop it back in the socket and give them a sling, I should think. Did have a mate who ruptured a testicle once – had to have it removed, and replaced with a prosthesis.”
“That’s horrible!”
“Umm. Of course we offered his doctor an enormous bribe to pop in an extra, so he’d have three, but for some reason he refused. No sense of humor, doctors.”
She had laughed, and there was something in her face that he couldn’t look away from. There was no denying that she was lovely, breathtakingly so. But there was more to it than that – a sweet earnestness, a guilelessness, an honesty, that made him feel as if he’d been thrown from a horse. He realized that he hadn’t been this attracted to a woman in years.
And so he had invited her to lunch, and she had accepted, and six months later, they were married. That was nearly 15 years ago. Now Bernie couldn’t imagine life without her. When he needed someone to talk to, she was there. When there were problems to be solved, she was a font of practical wisdom. And on those rare occasions when he needed cheering up, her quirky sense of humor never failed to bring him out of his funk. She didn’t just compliment him – she completed him. And in return, he treasured her.
God knew she had enough to put up with. At 48, he was still strong, still fit enough. But here of late, the good life seemed to be taking its toll. Drink had softened his once-strong chin and, often, left his startlingly blue eyes peering out between puffy folds of flesh. His hairline had receded like the tide; where once a full and ample crop had sprouted, there now grew only a few sparse tufts. He was growing old, he thought ruefully, while Jane still preserved a preternaturally youthful freshness. If he didn’t want to start being mistaken for her father, well – he would simply have to age her before her time.
“Oy! Bernie! There you are, mate, been looking all over for you! Time for the de-bagging ceremony!” Jester Atkinson was beckoning furiously, with Dex Reed in tow. Looking over their shoulders, Bernie could see the captain of the host team, together with the tournament sponsor and his wife, preparing to present the championship trophy to Weathersby, Hastewicke’s captain, who looked even more smug than usual. As the assembled throng turned to watch the ceremony, Jester, Dex and Bernie snuck around behind the dignitaries and got themselves into position.
“...showed us that we Americans still have a thing or two to learn about rugby. What more can I say? You really kicked our asses. On behalf of the Starlight Casino, I here’s the championship trophy.”
As Weathersby reached to grasp the prize, the three conspirators suddenly darted in from behind and snatched down his shorts, leaving him naked from the waist down. The crowd roared with laughter as Weathersby, red-faced, yanked them back up again. “Sorry, hadn’t planned to give you the full monty. On behalf of the Hastewicke Gentlemen – those of us who are gentlemen...”
Laughing at Weathersby’s discomfiture, the trio made their way to the bar and ordered three more. “Here’s to you, Bernie,” said Dex, raising his glass. “For such a mild-mannered sod, you’re a holy terror on the pitch. Thought I was a goner until you came hurtling in out of nowhere.”
With about 15 minutes to go in the final, and the score knotted at 14-all, The Hastewicke Gentlemen had found themselves in a line-out on the Old B.A.T.S. 22-meter line. A few minutes before, Dex had sorted out the Old B.A.T.S. number 8, who had just used Harry Barlowe’s groin for a springboard, with an elbow to the nose. Now, in the lineout, as Dex went up for the ball, an Old B.A.T.S. prop undercut him and sent him crashing heavily to the ground.
Dex, stunned, nevertheless retained possession and tried to present the ball, but the Old B.A.T.S. forwards surged forward to deal him a pummeling. Then a blurred form – Bernie – darted in from the Hastewicke side to drive two opponents backward, clearing just enough space for George Waters, the Hastewicke scrum half, to loft an up-and-under toward the corner. An alert Roger Seagrave had won the footrace to the try-line, and scored to make it 19-14. Meanwhile, Bernie had stood over Dex to ensure that there was no off-the-ball cheap-shotting now that the referee’s attention was elsewhere.
“Think nothing of it, Dex. You’ve done the same for me on many an occasion.”
The truth was, thought Bernie, he needed rugby. He needed the contact, the violence, the almost post-coital release that rewarded total commitment on the pitch. Yes, he was mild-mannered and even-tempered in everyday life. It was just the way he was made. Couldn’t stand upheaval and hurly-burly. But even if he didn’t let it show, much of the time, he had more than his share of stress to release. Thank God for rugby – and for Jane.
He didn’t think she knew he was gay. Their sex life was vigorous and regular, thanks to his vivid fantasy life. Through the decade and a half of their marriage, he had been scrupulously careful never to let her know who he was really thinking about when they made love.
James had been a year older than him at Hastewicke – tall, handsome, witty and modest. Bernie had long recognized that, while he felt comfortable around girls, he was not attracted to them. The sexual side of his being had simply lain dormant – until the first time he saw James.
They had remained best friends and lovers through university. Then, one night, as they lay in each others’ arms in Bernie’s Oxford flat, James had made a fateful announcement – a comedy script he’d written had been accepted by an American production firm. He was moving to L.A. “Come with me!” James had urged him. “You’re as free as the air. There’s nothing keeping you here!” But there was. The idea of trading in his well-settled and privileged English lifestyle for an uncertain future in a foreign land filled Bernie with dread. All his mates were here, and all his family. It simply wasn’t on.
And so James had disappeared from his life. Oh, there had been other lovers – all discreet, all brief, all carefully concealed from his mates on the Hastewicke Gentlemen. Then he had married Jane, and become a new man. His family, particularly his sisters, who had begun to wonder, were delighted. But to his despair, he had never forgotten what he and James had shared. Eventually, he had found Boris, a young prostitute who bore an uncanny resemblance to the James he had known at school. He saw him once a month, but it wasn’t the same.
The post-tournament party was winding down. Final beers in hand, kit-bags slung over their shoulders, the Hastewicke Gentlemen made their way to the line
of limousines waiting in the parking lot. By the time they reached the Bellagio, rigor mortis had begun to set in; Bernie had already popped several ibuprofen to ease the chronic ache in his shoulder. Crossing the expansive lobby, he noticed Bob Leicester standing in the elevator door in a posture of unmistakable belligerence. Fatigue forgotten, he dropped his bag and, seizing Dex and Jester, he strode over, just in time to see Leicester go down beneath a swarm of attackers. “What the hell...?” said Dex, accelerating to a run.
They had dived into the melee, forming a protective cordon around Leicester and sending his assailants staggering backward. Security had arrived within seconds. “Thanks, lads,” Leicester had said “– dinner’s on me tonight.” Well, he could certainly afford it. Dex and Jester had accepted with pleasure. Bernie had declined with regret. He already had plans for later that evening – plans that had been years in the making.
When he arrived at Suite 455, Bernie paused, self-doubt suddenly palsying in its intensity. He hadn’t seen James in more than 20 years. How could he fail to be disgusted by the ravages time and good living had wrought in Bernie’s once-pristine features? Well, there was nothing for it. He was who he was.
James had already let himself in with the key Bernie had left at the front desk. When he turned, all of Bernie’s misgivings melted like high-desert snow. He saw the same anxiety in James’ age-softened face.
“Bernie,” said James. “You look wonderful. It’s been so long – I’ve missed you so terribly.” And without another word, he took Bernie’s hand and led him to the bedroom.
Chapter 15
In 1996, the Hastewicke Gentlemen toured Texas by bus: Dallas, then Houston – both armpits of creation – and finally Austin, a lovely little university town on the banks of the Colorado River. One afternoon, as we traversed the blistering desert between Houston and Austin, the air conditioning on the bus failed, at a little town called Carmine, Texas. While the driver arranged for repairs, we beguiled the time at a biker saloon called Rattlesnake Roy’s.